


Hushed

by sciencefictioness



Series: Reverse [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: :), Blood and Gore, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Older Brother Genji, Parent/Child Incest, Patricide, Physical Abuse, Reverse Age AU, Sibling Incest, Suicidal Thoughts, Trans Hanzo Shimada, Younger Brother Hanzo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 08:23:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20422895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sciencefictioness/pseuds/sciencefictioness
Summary: Shimada castle is enormous spread out on the hill above Hanamura, a seat of power for centuries upon centuries.Hanzo only takes up the smallest of spaces inside it.  The far corner of his room, huddled against the wall like he might melt into it.  The balcony of the temple with his legs dangling over the edge.  Genji knows he looks down, wonders how long it would take to reach the rocks at the bottom.Hungry for weightlessness, and the darkness that follows, except Genji is there sometimes holding his hand.Holding him back.No, Hanzo.Please.Hanzo gets lost, sits hidden in the hollow alcove beneath the stairs and disappears there.  Not only under the stairs.He’s disappearing under Sojiro’s hands, too, one way or another.  There is less and less of him; Genji watches him fade.Hanzo makes himself smaller and smaller and Genji knows he wants to vanish altogether.





	Hushed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [besselfcn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/besselfcn/gifts).

> For [Lee,](https://archiveofourown.org/users/besselfcn/pseuds/besselfcn) who indulges me in many Shimada feelings, and contributed many of the concepts featured here. 
> 
> This piece heavily features Sojiro's abuse of Hanzo and Genji, both sexual and otherwise. None of the sexual abuse is depicted 'on-screen', but please be aware. Mind the tags and enjoy.

The edge of his sword is more beautiful like this, red dripping off the blade and onto the floor in a lulling rhythm. His wakizashi is the weapon he keeps close at home; it’s smaller than his katana, faster when he needs to draw. Genji falls asleep with his hand around the hilt sometimes, tucked beneath his pillow out of sight. It’s not that he’s afraid, but the silk wraps are familiar under his fingers, soothing like almost nothing else.

It isn’t the first time someone has come for them in the night. It won’t be the last. Their enemies are afraid of him, and Genji doesn’t blame them.

They’d be foolish not to fear a dragon.

The bodies splayed unnaturally around his room are motionless, red blooming dark across the wood where he’s cut them down. One of his guards steps into the doorway, katana in hand, but pauses as he takes in the scene. He is too late to be of any use here. It isn’t his fault— being tasked to protect Genji is the most ironic kind of honor. 

Keep him safe, except Genji is heir to the clan. He’s got ancient spirits inked into his skin, and years and years of his father’s lessons tattooed even deeper. Cut into his muscles, ground into his bones. Scarred where Sojiro wouldn’t let them heal,  _ the pain is good for you, Genji. _

_ Keep it close. _

Keep him safe, except if Genji can’t do that himself, he doesn’t deserve to keep drawing breath.

_ You are weak, or you are strong. _

Sojiro is a monster, but he isn’t wrong.

Genji can hear someone dying out in the hall, the guttural noise of a throat that hasn’t been slit thoroughly enough. An intruder or one of their own, Genji doesn’t know. Doesn’t care. In that moment all that matters is— 

“Where’s Hanzo?” Genji asks the guard, who gives him a helpless look. He doesn’t know. Couldn’t know, not with all the chaos that’s unfolding throughout the castle. Fresh adrenaline rushes through Genji, but only for an instant.

Hanzo drops silently into Genji’s room through the open window, Stormbow on his back and blood splashed over his face, brows pulled into a scowl. The katana in his hand is bloodier than Genji’s own. Hanzo’s eyes are stuttering blue, like he’s barely keeping his dragons in check, but the light goes out of them when they land on Genji. 

They both move at once, closing the distance that separates them in a matter of seconds. As soon as Hanzo is within reach Genji has a hand on his cheek, thumb brushing away some of the gore. Hanzo leans into the touch, sparing a brief glance for the guard in the doorway. There is someone watching.

There is always someone watching. 

Genji’s eyes rove over him, but there are no heavy bloodstains on Hanzo’s clothes, no indication that he’s wounded. Hanzo is doing the same to him, looking Genji up and down; there’s a large swath of red on Genji’s abdomen. Hanzo palms at it a little frantically, hand unsteady, but Genji shakes his head. He closes his fingers around Hanzo’s wrist but doesn’t ease it away. 

“It’s not mine,” he says, his voice pitched low. “I’m fine, Hanzo.” Hanzo leaves his hand laid flat against the bloody expanse of Genji’s stomach and meets his eyes again. Glances over his shoulder at the window, and then back at Genji, jaw clenched. “There were more on the roof?” Genji asks. Hanzo gives a tight nod. “How many?” Hanzo lifts his free hand from where it’s splayed on Genji’s belly and holds up three fingers. Genji nods, sinking his own fingers in Hanzo’s hair and pressing their foreheads together. He closes his eyes, holds Hanzo there. “You did good, little brother.”

Hanzo curls his bloody hand around Genji’s exposed hip and squeezes. 

They stay like that for a handful of seconds. As long as they dare. 

Then they make their way out into the hall together, and clean house.

-

Shimada castle is enormous spread out on the hill above Hanamura, a seat of power for centuries upon centuries.

Hanzo only takes up the smallest of spaces inside it. The far corner of his room, huddled against the wall like he might melt into it. The balcony of the temple with his legs dangling over the edge. Genji knows he looks down, wonders how long it would take to reach the rocks at the bottom. 

Hungry for weightlessness, and the darkness that follows, except Genji is there sometimes holding his hand. 

Holding him back.

_ No, Hanzo. _

_ Please. _

Hanzo gets lost, sits hidden in the hollow alcove beneath the stairs and disappears there. Not only under the stairs.

He’s disappearing under Sojiro’s hands, too, one way or another. There is less and less of him; Genji watches him fade.

Hanzo makes himself smaller and smaller and Genji knows he wants to vanish altogether.

He is on Genji’s right as often as he can be, closer than is necessary, filling up his shadow. Quiet, quiet. It’s been years since Genji heard his voice in the halls.

Hanzo only speaks when they’re alone. 

When he can’t be beside Genji he is in the dojo. It’s the only place where Hanzo can move without second-guessing himself, and so he lingers there; fighting until he is barely able to stand, firing off arrows until his fingers bleed. There’s the noise of his breathing, and the slide of his feet on the tatami. His teachers give him advice, and Hanzo obeys wordlessly. 

Eyes on his enemy, or his target, or the ground.

On Genji, when he comes to spar. They move together. Genji can breathe with Hanzo circling across from him; he is not alone in his room, or gazing off clifftops, or tucked away under the stairs. 

He’s not at their father’s feet, a fist in his hair and a thumb in his mouth and— 

Hanzo’s hands seek purchase on Genji’s arms, on his waist, searching for a weakness. It’s not that Genji doesn’t have them, but Hanzo can rarely find one. Or maybe he can, but he never takes the openings Genji offers.

There’s not enough of Sojiro in Hanzo to pull Genji apart at the seams. 

Genji wishes he had more time to spend with Hanzo there— to spend with Hanzo  _ anywhere—  _ but Genji is going to lead the clan one day and their father will settle for nothing less than blind devotion. There are some meetings where it would be considered rude to bring along a second son, and so Hanzo stays behind.

When clan business requires weapons instead of words Hanzo is there, even when he isn’t supposed to be. Genji tries to leave Hanzo behind when he knows things are going to be dangerous, except it never works. Hanzo doesn’t speak; that doesn’t mean he isn’t listening. 

Genji doesn’t forget, but he’s the only one.

He creeps around a blind corner in enemy territory to find a guard he didn’t expect, their eyes wide and mouth open to shout. 

Then there’s an arrow through their neck pinning them to the wall, indigo fletching tipped with gold. They claw at their throat, eyelids fluttering closed one last time, something like confusion passing over their face. Why me, why this, why now. 

Genji can relate more than he is comfortable with acknowledging. He looks out into the night and there is nothing but shadows.

Shadows and two pinpoints of impossible blue, watching him from faraway rooftops. Genji huffs a laugh, soft and surprised.

Hanzo’s arrows follow him everywhere he goes.

-

They’re young, both of them. Hanzo is seventeen to Genji’s twenty. Young enough that the respect they garner from other yakuza is hard-earned, paid for in blood. It’s survival they’re earning when they spill it, or maybe a few days reprieve from Sojiro’s ire, but the currency is the same. Sometimes they expect it. Sometimes they don’t.

Someone draws on Genji at a meeting with the smaller, neighboring clans. 

Sojiro elects to send the two of them instead of going himself.  _ They’re beneath us,  _ he says, and Genji knows it’s true, but it’s still a serious thing to handwave them. An obvious slight, but not one they can call Sojiro out on without insulting his heirs; to imply Genji’s will isn’t an extension of Sojiro’s would be crass. Things are tense nonetheless, the way they always are when someone middling and mostly unimportant thinks they can grasp at straws of power. 

Then one of the Hirata clan unsheathes his weapon and points it at Genji, spewing ultimatums. The display mostly bluster, Genji thinks. A show of strength that’s really a show of weakness. It’s a bluff.

One he is called on. Hanzo moves like lightning. 

There’s the metal snick of him drawing his katana, a flash of silver, and then the rival lieutenant’s head thuds to the floor in a vicious spray of red. Blood spurts from his neck a few times, making a mess of everything around him, Hanzo included. His sword clatters onto the table as he drops to his knees, his body listing to the side and collapsing, landing half in his oyabun’s lap. Everyone is frozen, eyes wide and mouths open in shock, save Hanzo.

He’s seething. His upper lip is pulled back from his teeth in a snarl as he stares at the corpse of a man who, just a few moments ago, had a hundred soldiers at his beck and call. Now all he can do is twitch, and bleed at Hanzo’s feet. 

Hanzo wants to kill him all over again. It’s written plainly across his face. Written in every line of his muscles, the way his right shoulder tenses up as though he is aching to swing his sword.

Genji can’t help himself. He smiles, and it’s wide and smug and adoring. Hanzo backs up a handful of steps until he is beside Genji, but he doesn’t put away his weapon. He’s ready to cut his way through every man in the room if he has to— a half dozen clan leaders, twice that many lieutenants.

Genji loves him.

God, he loves him.

When Hanzo is close enough Genji puts a hand on the small of his back, rubbing a few circles with his thumb before letting it drop again. If Genji had killed an enemy lieutenant as Sojiro’s representative, it would have been war, but Hanzo isn’t the leader of the clan.

Hanzo is Genji’s loyal dog as far as everyone outside the clan is concerned. Given enough leash to bite, set loose on their enemies when there is nothing left to say with words. Hanzo speaks in arrowheads, and the metallic drag of his katana.

The Hirata clan leader isn’t happy but he doesn’t make any kind of protest beyond demanding reparations for the lieutenant’s family. He knows better than to push with Hanzo there, eyes snapping bright and ready for blood.

Genji buys a man’s life with a few million yen and an insincere apology, and never thinks of him again.

-

They both go to their knees before Sojiro, sitting seiza as Genji prepares to brief him on the meeting, except Hanzo doesn’t stop there. Keeps moving, dropping his head down further and further, hair falling around his face like a curtain until his forehead is pressed into the floor. Quiet, quiet.

Hanzo can’t say the wrong things if he doesn’t speak at all.

They hadn’t stopped to wash the blood from his face, or change his clothes. Sojiro stares at Hanzo with his eyes narrowed, and Genji bristles.

“What did he do?” Sojiro asks. Disinterested. Resigned.

A man who owns an unpredictable animal, wondering if someone will come clamoring to put him down. Genji sits up straighter and resists the urge to look at Hanzo, to reach out and touch him.

“A lieutenant of the Hirata clan drew on me unprovoked. Hanzo cut off his head.”  _ He didn’t do anything wrong,  _ Genji thinks, but saying it will make things worse. He tells Sojiro what happened in the meeting instead, start to finish, brief but thorough. The agreement they reached with the other clans about the shipyards; their territory and supply lines.

There will be lasting consequences for what Hanzo has done, but most of them are to Sojiro’s benefit. Even so, there is no way to predict how he will react. Pleased at a demonstration of their willingness to do what needs to be done without hesitation, or angry that Hanzo would take a life Sojiro had not specifically ordered him to take. Sojiro doesn’t smile, but there is the barest flash of something proud on his face. 

It’s a good thing, until it’s not.

“Leave us,” Sojiro says, refilling his cup with sake, not sparing Genji a glance. His guards don’t move.

Hanzo doesn’t move.

Genji is suffocating, no air in his lungs as he digs his fingers into his thighs so deep they will mark. He clenches his jaw so tightly that he wonders if it will open again. Hanzo sinks even further into the floor, shoulders rounding and arms pulling snug against his sides. His hands aren’t shaking. His breathing hasn’t gone ragged. Not yet.

It will come, Genji is sure.

“Now,” Sojiro says when Genji fails to obey. There’s more command in his voice but he’s still watching Hanzo. 

Fantasy pours through Genji’s mind like rain. His wakizashi buried in his father’s stomach. Dragging across his throat, parting the skin like silk. His fingers curled around Sojiro’s neck— squeezing, and squeezing, until the red in his eyes goes dark and never flares again. Broken bones and a shattered spine and Genji has killed him a thousand times. In his thoughts. In his dreams. 

Genji glances to the side, a half dozen of Sojiro’s best soldiers spread around the room. Hands on the hilts of their swords, shoulders squared, eyes locked on Genji. There is someone watching.

There is always someone watching. 

It is not just fantasy pouring through him.

There’s the memory of screaming until his throat bled. Of standing between his father and Hanzo, hands closed into fists,  _ you have to stop. _

_ I won’t let you anymore.  _

There are more memories after that, of spitting teeth and a broken jaw. Dragons snarling red in his face. Ribs through his lungs and mouth full of gore, three of his father’s guards pinning him to the floor. They turned his face to the side, and held him there,  _ I don’t need your permission, Genji. _

_ A Shimada takes what they want. _

Genji could have what he wants, but not right now. Not if he wants to keep drawing breath, too. He thinks of Hanzo all alone, the elders closing in like vultures. Thinks of Hanzo as scion, nothing but a puppet for the likes of the men at Sojiro’s back. 

Thinks of Hanzo lowering his ashes in the ground. Lighting incense. Putting him to rest.

Genji swallows bile, and blinks the light from his eyes, and goes.

-

Hanzo crawls into Genji’s futon in the dark. He pulls the covers back and reaches for Genji. His hands are quaking, now. His breathing is ragged. 

It isn’t the first time Hanzo has come for him in the night. It won’t be the last. 

Genji pulls him close, tucks him under the blankets; safe from the whole world, if only for a while. 

Genji doesn’t need light to map out all the bruises on Hanzo. Fingerprints around his throat, and dusted over his hips. Dark violet ringing both wrists. A busted lip, scratches running down his back. Genji finds the imprint of Sojiro’s teeth with his fingertips, jagged edges etched into the curve of Hanzo’s shoulder. 

Hanzo curls up in Genji’s arms, and shakes, shakes, shakes.

Genji buries his face in Hanzo’s hair. His own breathing is ragged. He is shaking, too.

Sojiro breaks Hanzo into pieces, and Genji is worse than useless.

Once the worst of the shakes have subsided Hanzo nuzzles into Genji’s throat. He’s hiding his face, even in the dark. Hanzo is still trembling a little when he finds Genji’s hands and eases them between his thighs. Flush against him where they come together, where Hanzo is tight and wet and perfect.

Genji resists his tugging, pressing closer to Hanzo even as he keeps his hands away.

“Hanzo,” he says, and Hanzo lets out a broken sound, and pulls harder. 

Whispers into Genji’s skin, jaw quivering.

“Please. Anija,  _ please.”  _

The hush of Hanzo’s voice is reverent. Something Genji will always go quiet for, and lean in to hear.

Something he will obey without fail. Genji will give Hanzo this, like he always does.

Still he hesitates. Makes him wait.

Genji is no better than Sojiro, really. 

Monsters can beget nothing but monsters.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Hanzo.”

Hanzo laughs, and Genji hates the sound.

“You’re the only one,” he whispers, urging Genji’s palms under his robes, arching into the contact. “Just you.”

Hanzo is familiar under his fingers, soothing like nothing else. Maybe there some of Sojiro in him after all.

Hanzo can always pull Genji apart at the seams.

“Touch me, anija. I need you.”

Something that doesn’t hurt. Something that doesn’t stain.

“Okay,” Genji says, and kisses his jaw, coaxing Hanzo’s face out from where he’s hiding. He brings their mouths together. Hanzo tastes like blood. “I have you, Hanzo.”

Genji holds Hanzo close and listens to the quiet sounds he makes as they move against each other,  _ love you, Hanzo, love you.  _ He’s leaving more bruises trying to hold Hanzo closer when there is already no room to breathe. 

Hanzo covers his mouth with his palm when he comes, whining into his fingers and shuddering hot and slick around Genji.

Genji does have him.

Then the sun rises, and Hanzo is gone.

_ Enough,  _ Genji thinks, running his fingers over the hilt of his weapon. The silk is soft, twisted up in itself. Genji thinks of Hanzo.

It’s enough.

-

It takes time. Sojiro has taught Genji a lot of things without trying.

One of them is patience. It doesn’t come naturally, but Genji learns.

The edge of his sword is more beautiful like this, red dripping off the blade and onto the floor in a lulling rhythm.

Sojiro is in pieces, scattered around the room. His guards are in the hall, on the stairs, in the temple— littered throughout the grounds like so much trash. Genji’s own men are moving through the hallways, ready to meet any further resistance with steel, but there is none. Sojiro’s men went down quickly, went down quietly. 

Genji doesn’t feel remorseful about slitting their throats in the dark.

Their father’s eyes are open and staring at nothing. His right arm is severed, fingers twitching next to Genji’s bare feet. He hadn’t meant to keep swinging once Sojiro went down, but Genji’s dragons were loud and hungry and now his father is in ruins. Genji doesn’t feel guilty. 

For an inconceivably long moment, Genji doesn’t feel anything at all.

Then Hanzo flies into the room with his sword drawn, wild-eyed and feral, only to stumble to a halt. There were no strangers for Hanzo to gut on the rooftops, no enemies inside the gates. Genji watches realization dawn over Hanzo’s face. His eyes go wider. His weapon hand shakes. Hanzo’s chest heaves— once, twice. 

Genji wonders if Hanzo thinks he might be dreaming. It wouldn’t be the first time.

It won’t be the last.

Hanzo looks at Genji and lets out a guttural noise— not a sob, but it’s a near thing. Genji reaches out with empty hand and beckons Hanzo closer. A tear tracks wet down Hanzo’s cheek. His jaw shivers.

Then he is in Genji’s arms again, face shoved into his chest, katana still in hand as he holds Genji tight. Hanzo isn’t crying audibly, but he’s breathing like he’s run for miles. 

“It’s okay,” Genji murmurs into Hanzo’s hair. He’s said it a thousand times, but this time is different.

It isn’t a lie anymore.

“We’re okay.”

The pool of Sojiro’s blood spreads under their feet, warm and dark. Poisonous. Hanzo edges away from it without letting go of Genji, makes a noise like it bothers him to touch it. 

Genji thinks of how it’s Sojiro’s blood in their veins, beating through their hearts, keeping them alive.

Then he doesn’t think of it again. 

For a while.

They burn Sojiro. Burn his guards. Burn his bed and his clothes and all his favorite things. They pour his sake down the drain, and put his weapons in the swordsmith’s furnace, watch them melt away. 

Genji razes every piece of him to the ground, until all that remains of Sojiro are the scars he left behind. 

Scars, and Genji, and Hanzo.

They wash Sojiro’s blood off and crawl into Genji’s bed together. Hanzo is still quiet. Still muffles his cries in Genji’s shoulder, and covers his mouth when he comes. Genji still leaves bruises, can’t get Hanzo close enough. Wants to pull him inside where no one else can touch him. Wants to keep him there.

When the sun rises Hanzo is still sleeping, face slack as he breathes against Genji’s skin. Genji has him.

It’s enough.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Tell me nice things or come yell at me on [twitter.](https://twitter.com/scifictioness?lang=en)


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